8. Celia
Chapter 8
Celia
After years of OBGYN visits, I thought I had become immune to the waiting game. Sitting in the lobby. Hovering inside the exam room. Waiting for the doctor to arrive.
But I never anticipated how the waiting game changes once you have three muscled mafiosos in tow, two of which are sporting cuts and bruises on their faces and hands, while the third is wearing a faceless mask. People staring, I’m used to. But people whispering behind my back, I’m not.
Rage scowls at every person in the office, including the front desk staff who are simply trying to do their jobs. Rebel flirts with one of the women in scrubs, trying to convince her to speed things along for us. And Ruin…
Well, he stands at the side of the room next to a potted tree, looking about as obtuse as a beached whale.
Either by the grace of God or the Monrovia name earning me some points, we file out of the waiting area within twenty minutes, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the nurses take my vitals and bring us to a private room. The door closes behind us, and all of a sudden, I’m brought right back to the last time I was sitting in this very room, waiting for pregnancy results on my own. My ex-husband was at work as usual, and I hadn’t told my mother or brother about my latest attempt to fall pregnant, so I went to the appointment alone.
I didn’t cry about the negative test results until I made it home that evening, which was longer than I had lasted before then. Still, the memory stings, and I try to focus on the three large, tattooed differences between that appointment and this one.
They won’t stop staring at me.
I fidget on the examination chair, the crinkle of the sterile paper under my butt loud enough to make me wince. All three of my men are standing in different corners of the room pretending to mind their own business, but every few seconds, I catch them all staring at me, like they’re waiting for the baby to pop out today . Rebel actively plays with the medical supplies stored in little glass jars on the counter, Ruin stands directly beside the door ready to pounce at the first sign of danger, and Rage is… well, overbearing as usual.
“Could you give me some space?” I rub my temples and pretend that the warmth on my back isn’t Rage’s hand—it’s the sun, or a heating pad, or a fluffy white cat curled up into the cutest little ball of fur. But every time he rubs up and down my spine in these slow, torturous strokes, I’m reminded of how he touched me last night.
I swallow hard and pray that Dr. Sakovia doesn’t ask about the collar or the bruises underneath.
“Why don’t you let Rebel wrap your knuckles?” I ask, nodding toward the man pulling strips of gauze into teeny-tiny pieces. They fall like snow on the formica counter, a steady pile growing with each passing minute. Rebel pulls a face that says gross , while Rage takes my hand and engulfs my knuckles with his own. The bruises and broken skin don’t faze him, but I’m already nauseous, and the metallic tang of blood in the air isn’t helping.
“I’d rather you help me,” he murmurs, lacing our fingers together.
I stare at our entwined hands before tugging mine free. “No thanks.”
The smile freezes on his face. “No thanks?”
“You heard me.” Clearing my throat, I pat the crinkle paper behind my back. “Rebel, bring the gauze and antibacterial creme over here and I’ll clean your cuts.”
Rage tilts my chin up. “What are you doing, krosotka ?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Rebel, however, cuts right through the bullshit. “Holding her hand isn’t gonna make her forgive you,” he says, reaching into the cabinet to grab a fresh box of gauze and tape. He tosses them at Rage’s chest. “Stop trying to force it.”
I take the supplies from Rage’s hands and busy myself with preparing strips of gauze and tape. He glares at his bruised knuckles, then at his younger brother, brooding expertly as he clenches and unclenches his fists.
He doesn’t like to lose, and right now, he’s losing big time.
“I won’t apologize for loving you, Celia.”
My heart races at his sudden admission. Flicking my gaze to his, I try not to shrink from the intensity in his eyes. “What did you say?”
Rage places his hand on my thigh and leans in close enough that I can smell what little remains of his cologne. Brushing his lips across my temple, he smirks against my skin. “You heard me.” As Rebel wanders over with the brightest little smile on his face, Rage presses a chaste kiss to my forehead and steps back to make room. Although I turn my attention to cleaning the cuts on Rebel’s hands and trying to salvage his split lip, I can feel Rage’s eyes on me.
He won’t apologize for anything, because he doesn’t think that he’s done anything wrong.
I use too much force to close Rebel’s lip and tear some of the skin off with the tape. The cut splits back open, dripping blood. He winces but still manages to smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve healed from way worse than this. I’ll be back to kissing you in no time. Unless—” His ebony eyes spark with mischief—“you wanna get a little dirty with it.”
I dodge a messy kiss attempt while Rage growls from across the room. “Don’t you dare get blood on her.”
Rebel whines. “You’re no fun. She might like it!” He winks at me, and I can’t help but laugh as I wrap gauze around his knuckles and tape it into place. I can’t ever see myself wanting blood with my kisses, but I guess if the mood is right and it’s only a little ?—
“Blood washes off,” Ruin murmurs from across the room. I finish taping Rebel’s hands and look over to find him staring as usual, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there earlier.
Rage throws him a death glare this time, but I’m more careful with my approach. I may not know enough about Ruin yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to shoot down his attempts at conversation, no matter how unorthodox. “Yeah, you’re right. Blood does wash off.”
The doctor arrives then, announcing himself at the door. “Celia Monrovia,” Dr. Sakovia greets, a friendly smile on his face as he reads my chart. “It’s been a while since I last saw you. What brings you to—” He looks up and notices all three brothers staring at him intently. “Gentleman.” Closing and locking the door behind him, he rolls up his white coat sleeves. “I didn’t realize you were affiliated with Miss Monrovia.”
“Damn right we’re affiliated,” Rebel says with a bright smile. “She’s my girl, Doc.” He throws his arm around my shoulder.
“She’s ours, ” Rage attempts to clarify, the sour look on his face pinching as he squares up to the doctor. “So anything related to her care, we are your first call, got it?”
I’m sure that intimidation tactics usually work for Rage, but Dr. Sakovia is experienced with unruly men. He ignores Rage and looks directly at me. “It’s your call, Celia. We can add them to your HIPPA authorization before you leave today… if that’s what you want.”
I set the medical supplies down and lace my fingers together in my lap. “I know how this works, doctor.” They could get my records even without my consent, so it’s a matter of policy. I’d never want to hurt Dr. Sakovia’s reputation—he’s one of the most reliable doctors in the city, known for his discretion with bratva matters. “I’ll sign the forms.”
Doctor Sakovia isn’t much older than I suspect Rage is, but he’s had silver hair for as long as I can remember. A silver fox , as the ladies in my neighborhood HOA used to call him. Despite working in medicine and keeping bratva clients out of his records for years, he doesn’t look a day older than thirty at most. It’s what makes it easy to be around him—he’s calm and collected and sitting on the right side of gorgeous.
He smiles kindly and washes his hands in the sink, humming to himself while Rage hovers way too closely to be comfortable. Any other man might be unnerved.
Wren Sakovia looks right at home with thugs and criminals.
“Alright, then. Your intake forms say you might be pregnant?” After drying off, he snaps on a pair of latex gloves and wheels over the phlebotomy kit a nurse brought in earlier. “How are you feeling?”
I swallow. “Um. A little nervous.” I bite my lip and avoid looking at the three men whose sole focus is suddenly back to me. My face heats, and I wring my hands together. “You know how hard it’s been for me to… conceive.”
Wren isn’t a gynecologist or obstetrician by trade, but I’ve met with him for checkups over the years, so he knows my history better than most. He always agrees to meet with me when I call.
“I want this to be a healthy pregnancy,” I continue, “and I’d like to go back on my fertility supplements if possible.”
“Let’s see if you’re pregnant first, and then we can prescribe as needed.” As Wren fills two vials with my blood, all three of my men watch in earnest.
It’s Rebel who speaks first. “How soon until we find out the results?”
“A few days. We’ll call with the results and update Celia’s chart on her patient portal.”
“And paternity?” Rage’s jaw looks glued shut from how hard he’s clenching. It’s a miracle he can speak at all. “How do we know who’s the father?”
I shake my head while Wren wraps my forearm in a bright pink bandage. “I don’t want to know. Finding out during pregnancy can risk the baby’s safety if we’re not careful.”
“It’s a little more nuanced than that,” Wren interjects, “but you can talk amongst yourselves and come to a decision closer to then. We won’t be able to test for paternity for a few more weeks, and we have non-invasive procedures that are safe for both the baby and the mother.”
“She must get pregnant first,” Ruin mumbles, his voice obscured by his mask. I look up to find him staring intently at my stomach, like he’s picturing a baby inside of me right now. Although I wouldn’t call his gaze soft, especially considering the expressionless mask on his face, his energy isn’t nearly as dark and mysterious as normal. If anything, he seems… curious.
“A few days,” Rebel repeats, a tiny smile pulling on his lips. “Say, Doc, tell me more about this whole ovulation thing. That’s when she’s fertile, right? How do we know when that is?”
Rage grunts. “I’m tracking her cycle. I’ll know when it is.”
My face flames. “Excuse me?” Since when has he been doing that? And why? I know he said I was ovulating this morning, but I thought he was bullshitting us in the heat of the moment—not actually tracking my cycle.
Pulling out his phone, Rage proceeds to show Rebel the period tracker app on his phone, complete with notes about when we’ve had sex. “Each little heart in the corner means we’ve filled her up that day, and this flower here means that she’s ovulating. The best days for sex are these.”
Rebel’s face brightens. “That’s my heart from today?”
“Don’t get your hopes up. I’m going to be the father.” Rage takes my hand and squeezes, meeting my eyes. “I made a promise that I intend to keep.”
My breath catches as I’m transported back to the safe house, Rage and I wrapped in each other’s arms as we whisper promises to each other about the future. My heart swells with emotion, caught up in the intensity of Rage’s smoldering gaze.
Although my ex-husband made a similar promise, it felt nothing like this.
I have no doubt that Rage intends to keep his promise.
“What if I wanna be the one to knock her up?” Rebel takes my face in his hands and plants a kiss on my lips, tasting of copper and smoke. When he pulls away, he’s grinning. A smear of blood coats his lips. “See, I’ve marked her. She’s mine.”
I touch my fingertips to my lips and pull them away to find blood.
Dr. Sakovia clears his throat. “Gentleman?—”
Grabbing my hand, Ruin smears my fingertips across my cheek, leaving a wet streak. His voice rumbles low, muttering something in Russian, as he leans in and prods my bottom lip with his gloved finger. He slips it inside my mouth, prodding my tongue with the leather and forcing me to swallow what little remains of Rebel’s blood. “Good girl,” he purrs, removing his finger to grab my chin and rub his thumb back and forth across my lips, caressing the seam.
Heat blossoms deep in my core, making it impossible not to kiss Ruin’s gloved finger. We stare at each other until Wren clears his throat again, breaking the moment.
“Do you need anything else, Miss Monrovia?”
I look between all three brothers, from Ruin’s strange fascination to Rebel’s mischievous smirk and Rage’s brooding stare. These men are wild, but I’m starting to believe that they’re mine. “I think I’m good, thank you.”
“We’ll take care of her, Doc,” Rebel assures him, turning to slap Wren’s shoulder. “But if you have any pamphlets on pregnancy and ovulation, I’ll take three.”
“Four,” Rage interjects. “Thanatos is staying at the house, and he’ll need to watch for any signs of distress in case there’s an emergency.”
My chest seizes at Thanatos’s name. “H-he is?” The last man I want around my child is the one who said such horrible things to me. My ears ring, and I take quick, shallow breaths to fight off rising panic. “Why?”
“He’s family.” Rage searches my eyes, frowning. “And he’s the best at security within the bratva.”
“She doesn’t like him.” Ruin glances up at Rage. “He said mean things to her.”
“I was there. I already told him to cool the fuck off.”
“No, you weren’t.” My heart beats in overtime, making my hands shake. “When he brought me back to the club, he gave me a parting gift.” A laugh bubbles up in my throat, sounding as unhinged as I feel. Of course the verbally abusive asshole would move in after claiming he wanted nothing to do with me. He probably gets off on making girls cry. “He told me that I’d be a horrible mother.”
“That the baby would be better off dead,” Ruin corrects, his tone as icy as the memory. “He made her cry.”
Rage’s hands clench into tight fists. “He what? ”
I stand from the chair and blink away tears threatening to rise. “Don’t make me live with him, Rage.” Pressing the flat of my palm to Rage’s chest, I lift up onto my tiptoes and press a quick kiss to his lips. I know we’re not on good terms and that kissing him is a cheap shot, but I need for this to work.
I can’t live with Thanatos.
“It won’t be good for the baby,” I murmur against his jaw.
Rage wraps his arms around my waist and holds me tight. I can feel him shaking as he slips his hands beneath my waistband to hold my hips. Taking a deep breath, he releases some of his anger on the exhale. “Don’t worry, mama . ” He presses a kiss to my hair. “I’ll take care of you and our baby.”
I ignore the thread of anxiety tying knots in my stomach as we leave the clinic. As long as they think I’m pregnant, I’m safe. I won’t be put back in the cage for them to fuck every waking moment of the day.
But a familiar wave of hope, intoxicating and bubbly and bright, is what makes it hard to breathe.
I clutch the pregnancy pamphlets to my chest, praying to whichever god is listening that they be kind and gentle this time—that they give me a beautiful, healthy baby… and a father who wants them.